


Observation.

by saderaladon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental meditation, Arguing, Cake, Drug Use, Hand porn, Incest, M/M, Mycroft is Sweet, Oral Sex, Out of Body Experiences, POV First Person, Present Tense, Rimming, Sherlock Is Cheeky, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 03:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10454250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Mycroft starts looking at Sherlock. They do nothing for seven years.Sherlock dies, Mycroft runs into him in a few months. Dialogue. Shagging. Dialogue. More shagging. Pretty much the whole story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a self-help porn story written to be later translated by me into my native language. Meant to be PWP pretending to be literature. Then things got out of hand, so now it is literature pretending to be PWP. Consisting mostly of the word "that". The title should be "I couldn't resist myself". It's essentially an experiment on how many times you can repeat the sentence and still get away with it. Sorry, not sorry.  
> Not betad.  
> English is not my native language. I am no expert on British slang, so if things look too American you're welcome to say so. Or smash my grammar. Or suggest anything else of the sort. 
> 
> Beware the pronouns. If they don't make sense, it's probably Sherlock.  
> All the deductions are just pulled out of guess where. I have no idea what I am talking about.  
> The "Serbo-Croatian" is actually just modern Croatian.

*****

The realisation comes rather swiftly.

We stand at the corner, leaves covering the pavement, and there's all this meddling, the street is full of reporters and nosy bystanders, and then there are coppers and a forensic team and the rest. Lestrade is walking around me in circles, asking questions I am not willing to listen to. The car parks nearby: rustle of the tires, the door gets slammed, the heelpiece hits the ground. 

At that very moment I learn: he looks at me.  
Nothing before that, not the slightest hint, nothing to make me intrigued, nothing at all. It is as if a lightning strikes me in the middle of a sunny day. 

I stop in my tracks, few seconds pass, and I need them to do just so, I need some time to readjust the pieces in the palace, I need to place my surprise somewhere. I turn to face him. He looks at me, Mycroft looks at me.

 

I give it thought. The explanation, the reason behind the act is obvious: my brother is not the first person to look at me in that way, I know perfectly well how to recognise the signs of attraction.

What I contemplate is the possibilities. The game's started, someone might make the move. Or maybe the move, Mycroft's move, has already been made. He must realise that I noticed, oh, that I did. So if it is my turn, what should I do?

The situation is… amusing. Not the desire itself, but that it would emanate from him, that it would be directed at me. The prospect could be promising. I don't find any objections in myself, I know that I won't find them in him either, he isn't concerned with it being a disgrace or perversion, though publicly he would state otherwise. The reality of it, of this inappropriate, incestuous attraction does captivate me. I've never played this one, why not try.

So I do my studying.  
Well, first I wait. Mycroft does the looking. He considers and examines and observes, he does nothing else, but he looks. He's being polite, abiding by the rules, offering me to seize the opportunity. Exactly that I do.

I go out. I date. I drive it closer to home. First they are women, then they are men, then they are smart men, at the end they are particular, peculiar, important men, who wear suits and cufflinks. It doesn't do a thing for me. As dull and boring as I always believed it to be.  
Our shared interest amuses me, the way my brother looks at me, the way I look back, that _thing_ we know about each other, it has its effect on me. It occupies my thoughts from time to time, yet sex, sex that I have, sex that I try, sex that I study seems tedious. It only tires me, it tires me to the point where I want to leave my skull. 

It's not my skull, but sex I leave. I shrug it off, I keep our thing. Some waiting follows, but I leave it too very soon. It was, after all, my move. I didn't make it. Mycroft wouldn't make it instead of me, that — that would be repeating himself. Not something he is fond of. So I keep it as it is. He never quits looking, I never respond, never encourage. I just know. This thing lives between us, it lives a life of its own, changing, developing over the years, but never migrating. I am sure we both like it that way.

 

Some time later there're new characters in the picture. John comes in and stays. We have quite a lot of fun with John. The first day shooting is charming. He is ordinary, slow, but what I can't deny that he becomes my only friend.  
Then, the Woman. The novelty of being impressed.  
And then it's Moriarty. The future is all probabilities after his grand entry, the probabilities I have to calculate, the probablities which don't all lead to the preferred outcomes. It's one of those unlucky ones I am forced to take.  
So then, then I die.

*****

He catches me in Eindhoven. He does it best: unwittingly. We just happen to be on the same street at the same time. I am chilling out with the fellow beggars, he exits the car, wearing a suit and cufflinks. He walks past me, not in a hurry, the British Government doesn't run, but with a steady, vibrant rhythm to his steps, heading, no doubt, to some venue of great importance. I am ready to celebrate my victory, when he stops. He twiddles his watch with his back to me, straightens the collar, then tilts his head, shrugs and starts walking again.

I know instantly I am caught. I will run, I will hide. He will have to find me again, he's well aware I'll be gone in a matter of seconds. Of course, he doesn't bother to secure me right there.

He gets me two days later. I exit the shop, tucking the cigarettes into the pocket. The car is already waiting for me. I don't go right in, just to spite him, so we have a little dance, the car and I. Once the tango tune is finished, I get in.

Mycroft greets me looking at his phone:  
— Now I really thought you'd carry on until we are at some border.  
— Had to finish something, — I reply, taking in the scenery. Mycroft's schedule for the day seems to have been comprised mostly of boredom, interrupted only by cake. Twice. Not enough sleep. He endured three… not, four conversations with _people_ in the last eight hours. A small dog threw itself on him in the morning. He is completely over the incident now, though. 

— You're annoyed, — he says, putting the phone down.  
Of course, I am. Not that it is any of his business.  
— How was the cake?  
He fakes a smile, still not turning to me:  
— Why, thank you, quite decent.  
— And the other one?  
— Sherlock.  
— Where are we going?  
— Haven't you figured it out by now?  
— It was a sound disguise.  
— Exceptional. But you know how I am, brother dear, I always catch you.  
— Not _always._

He shifts on the seat:  
— That was ages ago.  
— Ah.  
— And you were… very determined not to get caught.  
— I am very determined now. There's this twisted plot I am enacting, faking my own death, bringing a world-wide criminal network down, the one organised by a dangerous lunatic… I am very keen on not getting caught.  
— That's nothing. Now, breaking a promise you made to me is a completely different thing.  
— Pff! — I turn to him, take off my jacket and tuck it behind my back. Then I put my feet on the seat, shoes land at Mycroft's side.  
— Sherlock, you're ruining my suit, — strangely enough, it isn't accompanied by a face.  
I nod.  
— Alright then, — he says. — We're going to a secure house, where…  
— I know where we're going.  
— Oh? Well, isn't that marvelous. 

He starts browsing on his phone again. I am annoyed. The shoes travel a little bit further. Not even a sigh.  
— Come on. Tell me.  
No reaction.  
— Mycroft.  
Still none.  
— Please? — he presses his lips at that. High pitch and raised eyebrows seem to be working. He doesn't see the latter, but he knows I am raising them.  
— I meant what I said. It was a sound disguise. However I managed to see through it, I doubt anybody would be able to repeat this.  
— So how?

He lifts my legs and moves them back on the floor, then puts the phone in the pocket. And finally faces me.  
— Let's say, — no, he _looks_ at me. — I've done enough observation over the last… how many? Seven, was it? The last seven years to recognise my brother when I see him.

That too comes rather unexpectedly.  
— Oh, — I squeeze the soft, weak sound out of myself. It might be the only thing I am capable of right now.

The next eleven minutes we're both busy. I feel stupid, averting my gaze every second. Mycroft's just looking at me, openly, his face relaxed. Probably thinking, that I am stupid.  
When the car starts to slow down, I ask him:  
— So what's with the rules, Mycroft? I thought we were supposed to always take turns.  
He puts on a thoughtfull expression:  
— I missed you.  
— What? — I snap, I do. The car stops. Neither of us reacts.

Mycroft sighs:  
— I made my move. You saw it, I know you did. Then, well, I guess you gave it thought and realised you weren't interested. It is about sex, after all.  
— I was.  
— Were you?  
— Alright, I wasn't. Not in the sex, no. I did try, of course. Had to make sure, — he smiles. — And no, I wasn't interested. But in you, I was interested in you. In that… thing. I was. I am.

He is somewhat taken aback. It softens his features.  
— My bad, then, — he concedes.  
— But why now? You _missed me?_ What _is_ that?  
He shrugs:  
— Sentiment. That, brother mine, is sentiment.

He opens the door and sets his foot on the ground, glancing at me before exiting:  
— Deeply. I missed you deeply.  
I follow him five minutes later.

 

To a secure house, where Mycroft cooks.  
A secure house, where Mycroft has dinner, while I don't. While I tease him about current British politics. Not that I know anything about it, but he does.  
A secure house, where Mycroft makes me eat.  
A secure house, where we drink tea, have a conversation, avoiding both questions and answers, which still works, of course. We drink more tea, sit in silence. Mycroft changes into pajamas. I laugh. We have sex.

 

— So how was it?  
The question comes as suddenly as he started looking at me at that crime scene seven years ago. Mycroft stands near the window, not so stylish now, when he is out of his suit. I straighten on the couch, then my hands fly up to briefly touch the lips, then the fingers scratch the palm, then hands rest on my knees, the right one on top of the left. He gets me thinking, my brother.

— It… Well, I told you before, didn't I?  
He turns away from the window and makes two steps in my direction:  
— Oh?  
— It didn't alarm me. The sex.

His hand flies up, grazes the back of his neck and slowly falls only to point to the bedroom in a second:  
— Shall we, then?  
— Of course.

It starts the same way it did when I was conducting my studies. At the same time it is completely different.  
There's no to-do list now and I don't feel compelled to perform any action. I help him free me off my clothes. Apart from this I am mostly slack.

But the familiar hum of the thoughts is there. My mind hurries to focus on something, to find some entertainment. It finds nothing at first. Compared to the things that do alarm me, nothing is happening. I finally settle on Mycroft's movements, pushing the noise into the background, almost ready to be bored.

Then the unexpected begins. I anticipated some trying on his part, some attempt to engage me, to look for my triggers and use them to fish the reaction from me. Being the big protective — worrying — brother.  
When he doesn't, I think that maybe I miscalculated. Mycroft is not only worrying, he is deceitful. Maybe, I think, he just decided to get what is his after all these years of looking and zero encouragement. 

I am in for surprise, because he, apparently, didn't.

I do expect a pattern and I sense none. His movements are random. I see that he does catalogue me, he maps my skin and files the reaction into his harddrive. I also see that he is aroused. But I see nothing else.

His hands on my throat, then lips on the knee, then lips on the feet, then fingertips on the face, lines, traced on the thigh, a kiss, hands slide under my back, fingers run over the chest and onto the shoulder, lips on the thigh, leg on the thigh…

A kiss.

A push.

A tug.

There's reaction on my part, I can't deny it now. It seems, that I fidget, when he kisses, stretch, when he trails, inhale, when he presses. I shiver at the fingertips. The sound leaves my mouth when he pulls.  
His hands on my hands, then lips on the knee, then fingers in the hair, then lips on the palm.

It's raining.  
No, it has been raining. The drops are heavily falling, landing sloppily on the surface of the lake. When it's the ground they are hitting, the drops are more adamant. 

I see no pattern. Actually, I see very little by now, I cannot quite make out Mycroft's face. Everything is blurry. It's getting dark. I lift my hand to touch him and he is there, the nose, the eyebrows, the lips, everything in order, as it should be.  
— Can't see, — I say.

He feels hot and dry under my fingers, which is extremely ridiculous even by his standarts. After all, it has been raining.

The palm rests on my abdomen, the palm moves up my side, the palm moves down my spine, the palm wraps around my wrist.

If there's no pattern, there should at least be rhythm. Mycroft, he likes classical music.  
Is it Bach or Mozart then?

He feels cold and moist. The last drops must have dried out.  
Mycroft kisses me, he says:  
— Sherlock.

I don't really hear him. In fact, I hear very little.  
He is aroused, I know he is. I can see that he is flushed, I hear him panting. It is erratic, there's no pattern to it, no rhythm.

I don't really hear him. I see almost nothing.  
Sometimes, when sensation comes, it's bright, it's so sharp. So my hands clutch around him. His skin is soft and worn, it must be tired under all this rain.  
And the next one, or the previous one, is light, brushing. My hands are unable to catch it.

The drops form the bubbles first. Then there is no form, no shape.  
There is no substance. I think that I am gone and then I am. I am — not.

There's arousal. And there's Mycroft, lowering his head and engulfing someone's cock, my cock with his lips. There's very little to feel now. There's this still, bright picture: the view is strange, up and to the right from the body, from my body, and Mycrofts' naked back is milky white, his hair ginger, he is flushed, must be aroused. He is not really sure. His spine arches and the pillow wrinkles under his head, the wrinkles match his curls. It is all in black and white, like in the old movies, the ones with no sound, and the only colour is black. 

It rises and it is being followed, and then it dissappears in the flow. There is mostly nothing.  
The only colour is black.

 

Mycroft is watching me. I stare at the ceiling:  
— Speedball, — I say.  
— What about it?  
— Two component drug, cocaine and heroin combined. Dangerous and highly addictive. One is a stimulant, another is a depressant. Hits as confusing as it sounds.  
— I should think so.

I turn onto my side and see how Mycroft looks at me.  
— His brother probably thinks that he shouldn't have done it.  
— His brother?  
— You, — I point a finger at him. — You probably… You definitely think that I shouldn't have done speedball.  
— Isn't that right?  
— Or any other drug. You're so very _worrying._

He just looks at me silently.  
— Okay, — I say. — Sorry. Okay. I really snapped out of it, it seems. Not fully back yet.  
— I can see that. And how was it?  
I touch his lips and shift an inch closer.  
— Somewhat fuzzy towards the end.  
— Any good? — Mycroft asks, his face is serious and calm.

I chuckle. He raises a brow. I start laughing. It takes me some time to stop, and when I do, Mycroft is smiling at me softly.  
— Yes. Speedbally. I guess. I'll need to replay it. My brother happens to be confusing. Did you miss me, though?  
— Excuse me?  
— I was gone.  
— Hmm, — he hums and slowly puts an arm around me. — It looked differently from where I was. Granted, I was occupied at the moment, but you were… responsive. Very much so, I'd say. Somewhat fuzzy towards the end, but responsive.  
A sly smile plays on his lips.  
— Piss off, — I tell him. 

I turn around and press my back into him. He takes the hint, embracing me tightly. I start to doze off, but then a thought flies through my mind.  
— Oh! I've completely forgot!  
He shudders:  
— Sherlock? What? — his voice is hoarse, with a touch of irritation.  
— Should I do something? You know, for you?  
— What is that? Sudden attempt at reciprocity?  
— Don't know yet. Might be sentiment.  
— No need. I took care of it in the process.  
— Did you? I didn't notice.  
— Well, if I recall correctly, you meditated on my actions, confused and subsequently lost all senses, had an out-of-body experience and vanished, dissolving into oblivion. Snapped out of it, as you so eloquently put it. So it is no wonder, isn't it?  
— Wasn't bored, though.  
— That just fills me with bliss and eternal happiness, Sherlock. Sleep now, — Mycroft says.

And sleep I do.

*****

He smokes.

We're in Strasbourg this time, not in a house, but in a ridiculous flat, modern and fashionable, with a view.  
I didn't bother evading him after Eindhoven. He wasn't too keen on following me either. A car would pass by, of course, from time to time, but nothing more. He was clearly busy with something else.

We discuss the matters at home: I don't ask him about John, he doesn't tell me about John. Then I proceed to a more pressing topic:  
— You know, Mycroft, I still cannot understand one thing: why did you start it so… abruptly?  
— Did I?  
— Well, yes, Mycroft. It was all regular and dull, and then you showed up and started staring at me. I'd call it pretty abrupt, wouldn't you?

He shrugs:  
— I can't say it was the first time I saw how you look, but… To say the truth, prior to that you'd spent all your days doing drugs.  
— Oh. Offended your sight, hadn't I? Ruined all the fun?  
— Don't be absurd. I'd been worried about you.  
— Couldn't be both things at the same time? Bugging your brother about cocaine doesn't go well with incestuous cravings, isn't it right, Mycroft?  
— I suppose, it doesn't. 

I chuckle and stretch on the couch. He comes to sit beside me. With a sigh, he gives me the answer I wanted:  
— It wasn't as sudden as you think it was. I had developed a desire to look at you some time before I actually started looking.

I nod in acknowledgement. Then he adds:  
— That crime scene wasn't the first time I did, though.  
— It was.  
— No. There had been several occasions before.  
— I would have noticed, — I am annoyed and I hope it is showing.  
— I don't think your powers reach that particular domain.  
— You had been drooling over me inside your head? Is that what you're saying?  
— Not exactly. You do realise that not long before the… event in question you had wasted two months of your — and my — life rotting in that warehouse, looking to overdose? I'd felt that some… supervision was needed. 

I spring off the couch almost at the same moment as I get it:  
— You spied on me by CCTV. You goggled at me using those secret cameras you like to stick everywhere. You're…  
— I am, — he smiles at me.

I fuss about the room for a while.  
— Go make me tea, — I say at last.

He makes me tea. I drink it, sulking and trying to invoke some guilt in him. It might be working, because then I usher him into the bedroom and he is so… compliant.  
— Are you planning on leaving me alone again? — he asks, when we lie down, having dealt with the undressing, now facing each other.  
— Maybe. You managed on your own just fine the last time, didn't you? — I put my hand on his cheek.  
— Sherlock, — he sighs under the touch. — Frankly, I was concerned about you.

I laugh and move closer to him.  
— Have you replayed it? Do you have any idea why it happened?  
— Yes. I figured it must have been some mind trick of yours meant to put me off, — it isn't true, of course, and Mycroft knows that. 

He examines me for a second and then leans for a kiss.  
— If you want me around, I am sure you'll be able to find a way to keep me here, it shouldn't be a problem with that big smart brain of yours.  
— I'll try.

Definitely compliant. So I push further:  
— It's actually all your fault.  
— How so? — His hands are already wandering, conducting a brand new survey of my body. I am not sure when they got there.  
— You were too random. People usually have a plan with these things. There's a goal to be achieved. And you, you always have a plan for everything. Am I just too stupid to comprehend?  
— No, of course not, — he answers softly, and I feel the change in the temerature of the sheets underneath me, from hot to cold, back and forth. — There was a goal to be achieved. But no plan, nothing in particular. I just did whatever came to mind.  
— You might consider compressing the data flow, then, Mycroft. 

His palm is moving in slow circles on my back. I wonder what his face looks like right now.  
— Leaving so soon?  
— Pardon me. Got carried away. And what was the goal?  
His voice is suddenly too close, echoing in my ear:  
— Mutual satisfaction?  
— How very basic of you, — I manage. Then the swirl comes.

It is more like drowning this time: the dry sound of the leaves scratching the branches, shuffling in the air.  
— Stay, — I see his hand, firmly holding my wrist.

Kisses come in succession, from right to top, forth and back. I enter the exchange, commencing my own exploration. Which is supposedly fruitful.  
— Visiting for Christmas, — I say. — It is not that he isn't listening, brother, he just can't hear. But you look great. Velvety.

I briefly wonder if my speech is intact. Was it all gibberish? Did I even speak aloud?  
— Don't worry, Sherlock. His brother'll understand, he always does. Just tell him to go on.

Mycroft is interested. Mycroft looks at me, I can see the curiosity in his eyes. There's an inquisitive tilt to his head. Must be hard to pull that off when lying down.  
His hand traces the inner parts of my thigh. It's tender, accompanied by a rapid toccata of fingers on the throat. A rather imaginative one, I might play it sometime. 

— Not confused, — I reach to caress him, I haven't finished my exploration yet. — Not now, anyway. More like… separated. It's either vision or hearing, either touch or smell. Visiting for Mummy's birthday, as I thought.  
— You thought Christmas.  
— Of course. Mycroft's distracted him.  
— Can you give me your hand?  
— Don't know. Can I?

Toccata grows messy. His violin won't be enough. A chamber trio, maybe. He'll have to consult with a professional.  
— No, not really, Sherlock. You keep drifting sideways.  
— I get nothing myself. Probably die of some fever. No proper medicine on the ship. It is all for the generations to come. They should be so grateful.

A movement.

A violin in one hand and a gun in another. At least that's how it feels. The gun is too warm under my fingers. It wasn't fired, though, so it's going to be a new case of mine. A mistery.  
— Sherlock, let me explain.  
— Go ahead.  
— You take it into your left hand, I'll guide you.  
— He is right-handed. It won't do, we don't need a miss.  
— It's alright, Sherlock. I am right-handed too. So your left, my right. Just let me help you.

I want to reject it first, I don't need his help, but the thing is heavy and my palm is numb, so I let him. He holds it gracefully. I see Sherlock moaning, his eyes closed.  
— What about the brother? — I hurry to ask before his concentration is lost. The leaves are closing in.  
— The opposite. Your right into my left, here we go.  
— Will you help me?  
— Do you need me to?  
— No, I know how to play.  
— Good.  
— Is it antique? The tone is so baroque.  
His brother laughs.  
— Just stay, — he says.

I do. The violin is velvety under my touch. Our fingers are intertwined. He is playing, his brother is just following him. He is compliant this evening, he and his CCTV. I will have to teach him a lesson about it. Later. My hand on the gun isn't steady, but Mycroft is there. I rarely see him in the field. I like it when he is in the field, because he doesn't.

I worry about the final part. Guns are loud and the tune I am playing is a precious thing, I don't want it interrupted. Even the leaves calmed down.

But it works out. Kisses come in succession, Sherlock says something, it is gibberish, I cannot quite make out the words and it's hard to read his lips with his eyes closed. I drag the bow one last time, the picture is so bright again: Mycroft is milky white, ginger and smiling, Mycroft is looking at me. Sherlock moans silently.

It all works out.

 

He smokes. He doesn't let me.  
— Antique! I am not that old, Sherlock.  
— You spied on me.  
— I made you tea.  
— It's not enough. You spied on me for your own pleasure.

He comes back to bed.  
— You will find a way to retaliate, I am sure.  
— Of course. Just give me time. You know, you were supposed to keep me here, not further confuse me with all that hand displacement.  
— I… yes. But it was amusing. I enjoyed your multitasking. A musically gifted pirate on an explorative mission in the distant, foreign oceans, with nothing but his faithful gun in the wrong hand…  
— Not a pirate.  
— No?  
— Just a captain. Sent by the queen. Private business.  
— Still, very elaborate.  
— Was more… trippy this time. I must have just filled the gaps.  
— Trippy.  
— Don't. It is a perfectly accurate word, and you know nothing on the subject. I do the drugs, you do the scheming.  
— Indeed. Sherlock, will you sleep?

I nod compliantly.  
I do the drugs, but I also do the scheming. One has to, with a brother like Mycroft.  
He drowses off first and I lie beside him, listening to his breath. 

He _is_ antique.  
I know exactly what I'll do next.

*****

We play hide and seek for a few months. 

The street is full of chatter. Neighbours quarrel, children scream, a teenage girl behind the corner graffities a giraffe with his neck in a loop, by the sound of it. A guy is trying to sell a watch. I don't even need to deduce, I just know it is stolen. It is the capital of stolen things.

I recieve a text. A beautiful sunset I was enjoying turns into absolutely stunning one.  
Where are you? M, — it says.  
Where all the phone-snatchers go? — I type in.

The next one arrives, when I am at the counter, paying for the beer. There's an address, the date is in two days.

I don't really believe he'll come, given the location.  
It is a perfect hiding spot, the only place, where Mycroft wouldn't dare to tread. They have a long history, full of war and detestment, the British goverment and Portugal. It made him sweat through four shirts a day and turned his skin a furios shade of terracotta, which just filled the whole next year with delight for me. He had to go, he couldn't refuse. I was fourteen and vicious. 

So when I come to the flat in two days and don't find him there, I am not at all surprised.  
I text nevertheless.

Liar.

I am late, not a liar.

Late. Ha. Why would you even come? You hate it here. What was it? The sky is too blue? The people are too attractive? The wine is too cheap?

I missed you.

This new development of human emotion in you is frightening.

It isn't new.

Oh, you've been sentimental over CCTV, am I right?

Something like that.

So if you're so attached to me, why aren't you here?

I have some business to attend to. You shouldn't have taken my phone. It could've been bugged.  


Business? What business could you possibly have in here of all places? Also, who would risk bugging your phone?

Who says I am there? I would.

It is gorgeous outside. I think I'll go out for a stroll. Of course you would. And then you would immediately turn it off. 

Just wait a bit. Be patient. Eat something. Read a book. I'll be with you in several hours.

 

— Seriously, Mycroft? You just left me in here with _literature?_

He flinches: the corridor is dark, he didn't see me.  
— What happened to the electricity?  
— Nothing. I pulled the bulb out. 

He bumps into the shelf and puts his case on it. When he tries to go into the room, I block his way.  
— No. 

I push him, so that his back is touching the wall. I take the phone out of my pocket, turn on the flashlight and leave it on the floor. It isn't bright, but it's enough for what I intend to do.  
— Sherlock. I'm tired. I've landed only twenty minutes ago and before that I had quite a day. So maybe…  
— Hush. And don't give me clues. 

He searches for answers on my face. I search for the story on his face, his suit, the story in his smell, his posture, his pockets.  
— Hasty morning shower, didn't sleep well, no breakfast, no doubt upset by that, a brief meeting that gave you a heartburn, a flight, oh, Mycroft, two in one day, you're not going easy on yourself, bad lunch… Bad lunch on a train? Did somebody force you? Crazy old lady with a cat. You went to a bank together. Rich crazy old lady. She left the cat at home, though. Not so crazy, after all. What were you doing at the bank, brother? Can't see anything. Too clean a country. Some… Switzerland? That would explain the train.  
— Sherlock, please. I apologise for making you wait.  
— Shut up, Mycroft. Be patient. Eat something. Read a book. 

I poke his leg. He sighs and straightens up.  
— So had to do some walking. Not outside, some pompous halls. Don't they know there to just come to you? Meetings. Coffee. Another heartburn. You might want to consult a doctor about it. Tedious, tiring meetings. Practiced your German much? Can bet you did. Couldn't resist, could you? So bored in your chair.

He chuckles softly.  
— I said no clues! Heavily interrupted dinner. Greasy food. You avoided it, but it's here, I can smell it. Ran into a bum. Were you on the phone? I am sure you were. Bad weather. So sad for your nose. Wanted to leave earlier, but they got to you. So many taxi drivers. Any with a terrible taste in music? Judging by your frowning all day, all of them. An Indian family at the airport gate. Asking directions? Preposterous people. Or were you out of your cufflinks, looking approachable? No. Oh, Mycroft, how sweet, you helped them yourself. But why?  
— They spoke with a nice accent.  
— Of course. Well, how was I?  
— Missed a bum.  
— No, I didn't. I told you, after the dinner.  
— Another one.  
— Where?  
— Near the bank.  
— No, where?  
— Shoes.

I sit on the floor and examine his soles.  
— Hm. I did. Not smelly enough. What a rotten country, couldn't even produce a decent tramp.  
— Finished then?  
— Oh, really? Of course I am not. The Forsyte Saga? Exactly what I needed.  
— Sorry. I am sorry. Now, could we…

I cut him off by opening his trousers.  
— Sherlock.  
— Shh now. 

I stroke him in slow, sloppy circles. He's put on some weight since our last meeting. So very soft. It is more complicated than what we did before. What should I focus on? He's hard already, but what should I focus on? Alright, that thing goes into my mouth, hands on the skin, listen to his breath, look at… Why is it so difficult to be occupied? 

He shivers under my gaze, most likely evaluating my project, and then I notice his hands. They tense up, creating an individual, distorted shape for a fracture of a second, and then relax, relax completely, just hang there. Last flowers of the late autumn. Calm before the big wind comes. Well, I'll look at them. Think of nothing. Should be fine.

It is fine. There're more reactions now, miniscule things, elicited by my lips, and I have to control it, I have to choose a way I am doing this. So I try this and that and so on, and then I just don't, because the data flow is compressed, as if he is running on some ancient — antique — computer, but it is still mesmerizing. Especially his hands. There's something strange about them. I look and I don't see much, it isn't me this time, it is just that the light bulb is resting in my pocket. Well, mostly that. The blurry edges are on me. And the hands, they are strange. Then I get it: he wants to do something with them. Touch me? Put them on my head, pull my hair? Guide me? The thoughts are swirling.

Will he?  
And no, of course, he won't. The fingers just scratch the palm, they tense up and then go slack, and move, twitch helplessly, so very beautiful, they play their own patternless melody. It is a pleasure to my ears to hear his fingers.

I feel light-headed. Oh, I guess, I've been going too hard at it, taking him all the way in. My mouth is wet. Mycroft's heels click on the floor. Itchy. Once more. Restless big brother, I should've put him in my pocket too. Ah, the itching is in my throat. 

I am aroused. Didn't intend to be. I try to look at Mycroft, see his face, all that white and ginger, but his hands twitch again, wet kisses come in succession, all sorts of sounds and he starts shuddering, his fingers, his legs, everything, even the floor is vibrating.  
— Sherlock.

His hand is hovering at the edge of my vision, not quite touching. I pull away.  
— What? Can't it wait? He's… I am busy.  
Mycroft arches his back against the wall.  
— Sherlock, I… Two more seconds and I'll flop. Can't stand. Bloody knees. Not with you doing all this.  
His other hand does a little dance. I experience a rapid surge of jealousy: his knees are buckling, but he is so… coherent. For me — well, now it is not just blurry, it's getting dark. So much for the phone on the floor. I know it is there, but it might as well have been on the ceiling. I must be really aroused. So… unexpected. 

There's not enough processing power at the moment, so I ignore the brother. But then the shuddering grows stronger. The refined design changes its shape, just melts, ready to turn into a puddle, so Sherlock stops. I make Sherlock stop.  
— Just… Could we maybe…  
— Shh, — I say, squeezing my arms around his legs, supporting his weight, containing his trembling. — I'll keep you here. 

There's a sound. But I have to check:  
— Will I? Mycroft? Can't hear you.  
— Yes, Sherlock. You will.

So I do. I take him back into my mouth, it feels just right. Itchy down there, but I seem to like it. Arousal, really such a peculiar thing. Mycroft's shivering. Constantly, with no pattern, no rhythm to it. I can see his fingers, so feeble and weak. Feathers, not fingers. Unnoticeable, untraceable, not quite touching, which is fine, I'd hardly feel it, if they did. They don't. He doesn't.

He just trembles, tearing whatever's left of the painting I made apart, and trembles again, voice shuddering. He is cursing, who would have thought. Well, not me, I am barely able to. I am aroused. Mycroft is aroused.  
Then he is not. Not anymore. He comes. Must be it.

I hold him still, suddenly very aware of my own breathing — ah, it is through the nose. Glad to know it is in place, other things seem to be missing. I take the risk. I fish the handkerchief out of his pocket with my wrong hand, empty my mouth into it and tuck it back. No need for more confusion.  
When the swirl stops and the floor is not wavy anymore, I stand up.  
— Sherlock, — he says.  
— Any good? — I ask him.

Mycroft looks at me, I feel it on my face. He starts laughing. It's gentle at first, his voice weak and husky, and then it grows stronger, he bends a little, one of his ridiculous, uncontrollable, _wild_ hands scratches against the wall…  
— Yes. Yes, it was good, Sherlock, — he answers, trying to steady himself.  
— Come on, — I grab his elbow. — You're all sweaty. You need to lie down.

We get to the bedroom, knocking something over on the way, and he doesn't lie down, I do. He sits beside me, watching me.  
— Are you here?  
— I am… I am thirsty, — and also blurry, though that must be pretty obvious to him.

He gets up and walks away, he goes into the kitchen. It's dark in every room, which makes everything understanble: Mycroft goes into the kitchen, heelpieces hit the floor, thigh hits the table, he pours water into the glass and takes his time on the way back, avoiding further injury. 

He helps my head up, I have my drink. I do some more lying down, he looks at me and sits by my side. I tug at his sleeve and he lies down next to me. It is much more clear now.  
— I want you, — I tell him.  
— Of course, — he blinks. — Do you know what you want?

He makes me think, my brother. I jump, I sit up, I hold him down, no need for more confusion, there're so many thoughts, so many ideas, all at once. I examine the room around us for a while. The only colour is black, so I turn my attention back to Mycroft, I look at his face. Still sweaty and ginger. And I know in a second.  
— What if I… Can I just sit on top of you and fuck your mouth? — I spit it out and it sounds harsh, I don't really know where it came from, I don't know where any of those came from, I am confused and aroused, after all.

But it is harsh. I could've at least phrased it in a different way. Maybe I could. He will refuse. It's good I cannot quite make out his face.  
— Hm. I'll need a pillow, but otherwise I don't see why not, — Mycroft says.  
— A pillow?  
— Yes, for the neck, — he smiles at me. — The one on the sofa, in the next room. Just wait a bit, I'll get it.  
I shove him back onto the bed:  
— Stay here. Don't go anywhere. Don't fly off to Switzerland or something.

It's dark in every room, but everything is much more clear now and I had enough time to familiarize myself with the landscape, so I am fast. I grab the pillow, then I am back in the bedroom, I give it to Mycroft, he tucks it under his neck, looking at me. I want him. I want him now. I undress, it is quite lucky there's only a shirt on me — I remember being bored out of my wits at an earlier point in time, that must be when I disposed of everything else.

A second more and I am where I want to be.  
It's a puzzling position. The angle is strange, and Mycroft is too close. There're also the thoughts, all sorts of them. Many are harsh. I feel relieved, when the swirl comes, shuffling my hair, because now I won't say them aloud, I can't say them aloud, I am incoherent.

A thought, one of the nasty ones, is nudging me to move. I do.  
Or… not. I don't. I think I do. I do, but I don't. It just doesn't happen. Mycroft's hair is still wet. I do the very opposite thing. My hands touch his hair, it is still wet. My hands barely touch his hair, they are feeble and weak.  
— Stop confusing me, Mycroft, — I mutter, pushing gently into his mouth. 

Drowning. Sinking. The exploration still could be conducted.  
I rock steadily and listen to his breath. He breathes through the nose. Noses are nice like this, you can always rely on a nose.  
There's a rhythm to my movements, I know there is. I lose it quickly, I am unable to repeat it once it's gone, but I know there is one, there should at least be rhythm.  
Mycroft hums and closes his eyes. His hair is still wet and ginger. Oh, but… I stop.

— Wait, it's wrong, — I say.  
I swim upwards, I need some air to clear my head. Something is wrong. Of course.  
— I'm missing something, — I inform him. — This just doesn't seem like you, Mycroft. I always thought you would be a controlling type, into all that discipline and domination stuff. You know, it's only appropriate with your power complex. 

He coughs lightly and licks his lips, looking at me:  
— I… yes. I used to be into that. When I was younger.  
— Oh. Hm. And what then?  
Mycroft smiles and shrugs underneath me.  
— I learned better? — he suggests.  
My fingers are weightless, feathery, when I run them through his hair.  
— Still wet. You must have been very sweaty.  
— My little brother deduced my entire day in the dark corridor and sucked me off right there, grabbing, gagging and groaning through the whole experience. It was so… intense, so insane, I almost fainted, I almost went out of my body, but he kept me there, my little brother, pushing me against the wall. I was very, very sweaty, Sherlock.

And just like that he simply throws me back into the water. Waves cover me and I dive deep.  
— I want you.  
— Go on then, — Mycroft says, licking his lips, and I see nothing but the sunken ships, huge, ancient, bizarre shapes floating in nothing, in nothing but black.

There's no rhythm to it. I thought there was. I was mistaken, I was confused.  
I am confused, I can't hear, can't see, and it is frightening this time, I feel… worried.  
But Mycroft hums and closes his eyes, so I just hope it is all working, I just hope I am not missing anything of importance, I just let my hands not quite touch him. My twitching fingers hover over his ginger wet hair and I descend into nothingness.  
So very soft.

 

— Cigarettes, — he demands, after finishing his water.  
— What?  
— Cigarettes. The pack you snatched out of my pocket. After the rich crazy lady with a cat.  
— I don't… — I did. What I don't is I don't remember where I put it.  
— Should be in the corridor. You couldn't have possibly hidden it in the shirt.

When I get back with the cigarettes he is skimming through the book. I open the pack and light one up for myself.  
— It is not a bad book, you know, — he says, looking up at me with comdemnation.  
He doesn't like me doing drugs. He doesn't like me smoking.  
— It is _literature,_ — I light another one for him. — The history of your calls to the dentist is more engaging. 

We smoke in silence for a few minutes.  
— I am sorry, Sherlock.  
— You already said that.  
— Yes, because I am. But now I also understand exactly how bored you were.

I chuckle.  
— Not enough, Mycroft.  
— What do you want me to do?  
— Toss it out of the window.  
— Excuse me?  
— Toss the Galsworthy out of the window.  
— Sherlock.  
— Come on, Mycroft. You're already in Lisbon. You've got nothing to lose.

We look at each other. Mycroft is tired, he had quite a day. It is still somewhat blurry, so I can't really see his face. I can feel his gaze on mine, though. So very soft.  
He gets up, opens a drawer to get out his pajamas. He changes. I don't laugh. Not that I don't want to.  
Then the Galsworthy flies out of the window.

Mycroft lies next to me and puts his hand over my eyes.  
— Sleep now, — he says.  
And sleep I do.

*****

Cocaine.

I have to admit: it is so useful to have a phone.  
The chasing has been going slowly recently. I actually approach the end of it, Moriarty's legacy's mostly gone by now. Which is good, that was my goal, after all. But there're some problems associated with it, returning to Britain, for example. I'll have to think about it very soon. These days, though, I am mostly thinking how excruciatingly bored I am, because this part of the chase is largely just waiting. I am not very good at waiting, I'd take running around over it any day.

So the phone's been helpful. At least I could bother Mycroft. We'd occasionally have an all day long texting session. He'd slip cases in his messages, some real, some clearly just made up with a sole purpose of entertaining me. He's been sweet to me, my brother.  
That's why I push the «send» button.

Fifty three seconds pass. The phone buzzes.  
Don't, — it says.

Easy for you to say, Mycroft, I mutter to myself. Maybe I shouldn't. It is better not to. The things are going slowly, but I am not entirely safe just yet, neither is everybody else back home.  
The guy in saggy pants is definitely a dealer. Must my life be so hard?

The phone buzzes again.  
Please, — the message goes. Mycroft's being nice.  
Did I come off that desperate? 

I don't follow the guy. Well, this time, there're plenty of them around here. Mycroft really should give me something more to work on. Pleading is nice, of course, but it doesn't last forever.

And again. Someone's reading my mind.  
It's an address. Can you be there in one week, he asks.  
I can. I am on the other side of the continent right now, so it would take me two days to get where he invites me to, but I could try and make it a week. Some illegal border crossings, some rhino horn smugglers, some desert jeep ride. Maybe malaria, if that is not enough.  
Yes, I answer.  
See you soon.

And yet when I get there — Tangier of all places — he isn't there. Hello, empty house.

You.  
Don't make a fuss, dear. Ten minutes. I am just picking something up. Put the kettle on.

I put it on, I take a sandwich out of the fridge. The tea collection makes me frown. Really, who chooses these for him? Nevermind the city, but first it is Galsworthy and now this? Oh, and those decorations in France. Stuff of nightmares. An automated program? This can't be an actual living breathing person.  
Mycroft arrives exactly three seconds after I've disposed of any trace of the sandwich ever being here. Can't make me eat it now, can he?

He's hungry and tired, so I let him have his dinner, talking about the cases he sent to me over the phone. He asks me about the business, but there isn't much to tell. Slow and dull. I almost wish Moriarty would rise from the dead. 

He makes the tea and weirdly enough it isn't as bad as I thought. Could be just my mood.  
— Oh, I've almost forgot, — he says, stands up and opens his case. — I brought you some biscuits.

And then they land on the table. The biscuits, the crisps and… that. Perfect line up: the crisps, the biscuits, and a small plastic bag tied tightly with a blue thread. A small plastic bag of white powder.  
So that is how it feels when you don't know what to say.

He's standing in front of me, beside the table, with a mixed expression on his face. I stare at him and don't really want to know how mine looks. It goes on like this for some time.  
— Sherlock, I… — he starts and it brings me back to life.  
I reach to grab the bag.  
— No, — Mycroft says.  
The furious jolt of anger makes me jump on my seat:  
— No?! What the hell do you mean "no"?  
He makes a fast gesture with his hand:  
— I mean no, I'll do it for you.  
And here it comes again: I am speechless. 

I just watch everything that happens next, unable to move or say anything. Mycroft takes the kit from his case, syringes, filters and all. He sits at the table and dissolves the cocaine. It is quite a sight. He's obviously never done it before, no surprise here, but, apparently, he consulted with somebody. If I could, I would laugh. I'd love to see him asking about the drugs. Who did he go to? It's just insane.  
So he doesn't do it like I would, there's no touch of familiarity there, but he is not hesitant, his hands are actually very precise and steady. Dissolve, filter, fill the syringe, check the needle. I think I don't even blink through the whole thing.

— Will you be comfortable here? — he asks, standing up.  
— Ah… I don't… Yes, but where did you…  
— Shut up, Sherlock, — he cuts me in the middle of a sentence. — Shut up before I change my mind.

Mycroft bends over me slightly, rolls my sleeve up, the needle is almost piercing the skin. He stops to look at me. I can see his throat move. Nervous, he is nervous.  
So I nod and smile at him, probably looking stupid.  
The needle goes in, the solution goes in, the solution goes up and round and up again and… 

Oh, Mycroft.

 

The train hits me. They serve bad lunches on the trains, but trains do move very fast. They aren't restaurants, after all, they are transport. 

The train goes over a deep dark gorge, curving its body on the bridge, squeaking. I look out of the window and it is just pines all the way down.  
Mycroft takes the seat opposite of mine.  
— Where are we? — I ask him.  
— Morocco, — he says.  
— Doesn't look like Morocco. Can't you see those pines? — I urge him to the window. He studies my face instead.  
— Eastern Europe? — he offers after a few seconds.  
— Could be, yes.  
There's a newspaper on the table, he must have brought it with him.  
— Nineteen-thirties, — I add.  
— Oh?  
— So what's with that assassination then?  
— What assassination?  
— The Chancellor of the Exchequer was shot in Budapest. Have you even looked at the paper? It is right in the title.  
— What paper?  
— Mycroft, don't be daft. This paper, the one you brought with you, — I point at the table.

He examines my face and then carefully takes the paper. He goes through it, frowning a little.  
— I am sorry, — he says finally.  
— What? — I take the paper from him.  
— I don't know what you're talking about.  
— Mycroft, come on! It is written right here: Kancelar državne blagajne Britanskog carstva pronađ en mrtav u bazilici Sv.Stjepana u Budimpešti.  
— I am sorry, Sherlock. I don't… speak — what was that, Serbian?  
— Seriously? You don't speak Serbian? What is there to speak? It has a Slavic root, there are many loanwords from German and Turkish. It shouldn't have taken you more than a minute to understand the article.  
— Sherlock.  
— And it is Serbo-Croatian, Mycroft. Nineteen-thirtes, haven't you listened to what I said?  
— I… Do you want a cup of tea? 

Unbelievable. Is he ill or something? But tea sounds nice, actually. I am thirsty. There's something wrong about this assassination. And Mycroft's involved.  
— Yes, please.

The tea is odd. Some mediterranean mix, no doubt from a country where they don't know how to make a proper cup. Not your regular train tea either.  
— Where did you get it?  
— What?  
— The tea, Mycroft, the tea. And why?  
— Oh… It's a gift. Is it bad?  
— No, it's fine. Why are you lying to me?  
— Sherlock, are you alright?  
— Marvelous. So?  
— I am not lying to you.  
— You're clearly involved. Don't dare denying it, I've had enough of your pretense. It's just silly.  
He sighs and covers his eyes with his left hand:  
— I am somehow involved in the assassination of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Which took place in the 1930s in Budapest.  
— Yes. In the St. Stephen's Basilica.  
— Well, how?  
— You tell me.  
— You're a detective here, brother. Deduce.  
— I am trying.  
— Are you?  
— Of course I am! But you won't tell me anything. I am not a wizard, I need some information to work on. And don't worry, I don't care about the mess you've got yourself into. Not a squeamish type.  
— Can you ask again?  
— Really?  
— I am sorry. I am somewhat tired. Had to do something I obviously wasn't prepared for.  
— Okay, Mycroft. That woman we talked to at the station. How old is she? Precisely? Does she have a son?  
— The woman at the station?  
— God help me. Yes, at the train station, back in Vienna. You went to a cafe to have a strudel.  
— And you?  
— Of course I didn't! I waited outside. Mycroft, the woman. Five foot nine, social smoker, divorced, grey hair.  
— I…  
— Mycroft, just look! She's all over your tie.  
— Oh. The woman on my tie. I… She's forty six. Born on 7th of May. She has two sons and a daughter. I still don't understand why you want…  
— Shut it. Then the card, tell me about the card.  
— The card?  
— Yes, the card, the card I took out of your coat.  
— You took a card out of my coat? When?  
— When do you think? When you went to wash your hands! It is a bad habit, you shouldn't wash your hands before eating, it's not good for you. You'll get all your things stolen.  
— Before eating?  
— Yes, before dinner, you had a beef sandwich. I'd eaten the chicken one. But you shouldn't know about that. I destroyed the evidence.  
— Oh. The beige card, you mean?  
— Yes, that one, with a golden writing on it.  
— What about it?  
— When did you recieve it?  
— Hm. January 23, early evening. Between 17:36 and 17:40. At the White State Drawing Room.  
— Give it to me. 

It all clicks when I look at the card again.  
— Does he play tennis?  
— Who?  
— The lover, the young lover of the grey lady at the train station.  
— Oh. Hm. Yes, yes, he does.  
— It must be him then.  
— The lover?  
— No, silly, don't you see! The man from your letters. Remember, you hired a painter to spy on me, so I took them. The one with bad teeth.  
— Ah… Oh! Sherlock. The St. Stephen's Basilica. Is that what you said?  
— Yes! Finally. Do you see now? He shot the Chancellor to cover what they've been up to. That lady practically told you! Oh, you are a nasty piece of work, Mycroft. I didn't expect you to get your hands dirty. 

He kisses me on the lips.  
— I am sorry, Sherlock, I see now. And yes, I suppose I am. Would you excuse me for a moment? I need to make a phone call.  
— Mycroft! — I shout. — What are you doing? Of course, go ahead, kiss me in a public place, get yourself arrested!

And then the train falls off the bridge.

 

My back is numb. There's a tingling sensation in my legs. The room is spinning. I am so thirsty. I am so achingly hard.  
Mycroft finishes his typing, puts his phone away and looks at me.  
— What's with the face, brother? — I ask him. I need some water.  
— Are you thirsty? Your voice sounds dry.  
I nod. He goes to the kitchen and brings me a glass.  
Bliss.

— Mycroft.  
— You're beautiful, did you know that?  
— I… I might as well be that too, right. But now I am hard. I can't believe how hard I am. Where did you get that stuff? You have to tell me.  
He strokes my head, shuffling the hair. It is wet. Damn cocaine, it's as if I've run a marathon.  
— Come on. Bedroom. Let us deal with that problem of yours.

When we make it to the bedroom he helps me out of my clothes. I just lie on the bed, sheets nice and cool, I am not capable of anything else at the moment, it seems.  
— I'm sorry if I won't participate. I've got no limbs, — I inform him.  
— It's fine.

I lie at the edge of the bed. Mycroft lifts my legs, my knees bend, he spreads them apart.  
— Can you hold it like this? — he asks, disappearing from my view, sinking downwards.  
— I guess, yeah.  
— Good, — Mycroft says and licks me.

Not the cock.  
He licks my… He licks me there. Oh fuck.  
And it is not even a casual licking. Well, the first one was. But now it's… Oh fuck. Mycroft has just buried his face between my buttocks and is currently performing an insane, frantic annilingus on me. Moaning.

It's funny how this is the only sentence in my head.

Concentration.  
Such an outdated concept, really.

Mycroft is licking me, it is wet and sloppy and so… hot. Hot is a perfectly accurate word, though I am not an expert on the subject. But it is. I never would have thought, I didn't expect to relax into this so quickly, but I am and now it is deeper. Mycroft is fucking me with his tongue. No limbs? What even are they?  
His hands are around my thighs, trembling. They are trembling so hard. Mycroft's out of breath. Mycroft is moaning.

I? I don't even know if I need to breathe. Maybe I live under water. Maybe I have gills. Maybe I am not even alive.  
And… Oh. Oh!  
— You're awful. You've ordered the hit yourself. Mycroft, fuck, you… — I trail off.

He lifts his head, his hair ginger, his face wet:  
— Yes, — he growls.  
I try to lift myself up to look at him. Doesn't work without the limbs, though.  
— But you didn't know. You didn't know!  
— Yes.  
I manage a laugh.  
— Can I finish what I am doing now?  
He's angry and flushed.  
— Please.

It doesn't take him long after that. Well, it doesn't take me long. Mycroft just puts his face back where it was and licks, first just the anus, then he moves to the balls, then back, I really want to crack somebody's skull open, he groans again and again, his tongue constantly moves, so frantic and sloppy, and when I am almost there he takes my cock into his mouth.

Then the train hits me.

 

His fingers touch my back. Limbs are back, but there isn't a single bone in by body. Mycroft has to help me drink the tea. He doesn't mind though.  
— Seriously, where did you get that stuff?  
— You should thank me, — he says, palm travelling down the spine.  
— You should thank _me._  
— I… Yes. Thank you. And I am sorry it took me so long. I didn't know you were quite so… imaginative when high.  
I chuckle:  
— St. Stephen's Basilica.  
He laughs and kisses my shoulder. 

— But really, Mycroft, where did you get the cocaine? It's pure as hell. Couldn't have been here. So Britain. Did you find some old friends of mine?  
— It's actually here.  
— Pfff. Come on.  
— Sherlock, I got it here.  
— Okay. But where? How?  
— The wonders of import.  
— Import? From where?  
— Well, Britain, as you said. The embassies are established, the ambassadors come, the politicians, their families come too, the creme de la creme of the British youth. They bring their drugs.

I almost choke on my own laughter. I roll my noncompliant body to face him, white, ginger and smiling.  
— So you just went to the embassy, hooked up with the new generation and asked for cocaine.  
— Pretty much like that.  
— I hope it is on CCTV somewhere.  
— Sherlock. Was it… Was it worth my effort?  
— You must be joking. I solved the case you didn't even know existed.  
— Yes, I just need you to remind me of that every fifteen minutes. I meant, was it… any good?  
— Of course, — I chuckle. — Cocaine was good, the next thing, whatever it was, was good too. Even the tea wasn't that bad.  
— I… You had me worried at a certain point.

I touch his throat. Milky white and trembling under my fingers.  
— That's an understatement. You had been shaking even before I took the train. You'd looked as if you'd better put a gun to your head than stick that needle into my vein. And then you were… scared. I still can't believe you did all that. Offered me cocaine.  
— Neither can I. I was scared, — he admits. It almost hurts, that's how sweet it is. 

Fingers are not enough. I cover his throat with my whole palm. His breath resonates with my skin.  
— I don't get why. You were scared more than when we have sex. You were freaking out.  
— Naturally.  
— Oh? So a trippy shag is alright, but a cocaine high is a problem?  
— I… Sherlock. That is… well, worrying too. I mean, it is bizarre. But it is you and I bizarre. I know you, I know how I affect you. That thing….  
— Don't offend my cocaine.  
— Your cocaine… I've never had the chance to actually witness your thinking process when you're high.  
— You had plenty of opportunities.  
He closes his eyes, frowning a little.  
— Relax. Mycroft, just relax, — I kiss him. That's new. — I won't. It's enough. Thank you.  
— My pleasure, — he says with a soft smile. — I am sorry, I am really tired.  
— Sleep then.

And sleep he does.

*****

A car goes by and slows down. 

It took him a while. My keeping low must be really effective. I've also put an additional effort into avoiding Mycroft personally. I needed a delay. Planning a revenge takes time. But now he is here. So I text him. Well, no, first I walk all the way down to Bebek, forcing the car to follow me. I hope they'll need to change the brakes. I sit on the concrete, the green muddy water licks the soles of my shoes. And I text him.

Just give me the address and the time. What's the point of me going into that coffin of yours? You're no doubt busy at the moment.

Mycroft answers in three minutes. Three minutes without checking his phone, they really must be having him do all the talking.  
See you at eight thirty, it says. The driver approaches me. I take the card from him. 

It's only noon now. So plenty of time. I'll figure it out by sunset.  
Only noon. So long. Luckily, I know how to occupy myself. It's been the same old waiting for the last two months, but in here I have no problem with the waiting: there are ferries, after all.

There are drugs too, they just pop out in the dark, bloom on the narrow hilly streets. But I promised. I don't want another point for him, I am not yet sure about my move.  
And there are ferries. There're so many ferries, big and small, government run and private, and also tiny little boats, full of fish and tourists, they're just swarming the city, engulfing it in their low lingering horns.  
So many shores to visit. 

 

My optimism wears off eventually. I exit the ferry at the smelly crowded pier, a tram runs by, the road is just mad. I feel restless, so I take the long steep stairs up, hoping that it would give me a decent idea.  
It doesn't. I look at the card. A loft. God, Mycroft. It is in a different part of the city, I'll have to take the underground. I'll have to do that pretty soon.

I don't. I go past the tower and roam the narrow hilly streets. Little bars, trendy barbershops, young people with long hair, tacky tableware, bright colourful lamps and dark dead ends. I consider just staying here, just walking all night and never meeting my brother again.

Suddenly I see it. I turn around the corner and there's this small cafe, smoky, dimly lit, and crowded. That thing just sits lonely in the showcase, ridiculously gorgeous and yet forgotten. So exceedingly lush.  
I buy it, the woman at the counter puts it in a small paperbox and hands it to me like some treasure. It's tender, she says. 

I get lost on my way back to the station, fortunately not for long. I've figured it out, now I need to deliver.  
The carriage is full, all of them are at this time, so I hold the thing close to my body, I keep an attentive eye on it. It manages to survive. 

The building is not very high, but it sits almost on top of the hill. The window is lit, Mycroft's already there.  
I force myself not to run up the stairs. I'm so determined to get in, to present him his gift, but once I enter the flat I understand I don't really know how to do that. Maybe I'll do the gulping too.  
I take my coat off, shove the thing underneath it and enter the room. Mycroft looks dishevelled.  
— Americans? — I ask him.  
He nods, closing his eyes. Tired.  
— You could've left me alone, — I continue. This I know how to do perfectly well. — It's almost done, I will be coming home soon.  
— Will you? — he looks at me, tilting his head.  
Caught me. He always does. 

I go to the window, I look at the ferries, hurried little sparkles running in the dark thick waters.  
— Probably not, — I answer him finally. — John…  
— Do you want to know about John? — he comes to stand by my side.  
— Probably not.  
— What do you want? A talk about Americans? A game of chess? A walk? Sex? Please, don't say drugs.  
— I have something for you, — I blurt out, turning to face him. He looks taken aback for a moment and then the expression changes.  
— Sherlock. Are you keeping the score?  
— Yes, but that's not the point. Aren't you?  
— I try not to. But really, you didn't have to.  
— Don't be so nice, it doesn't suit you.  
— Seriously, Sherlock, there's no…  
— Shut up, Mycroft. Just look at it first. I bet you'll like it.  
— Well?

I go to the corridor to get the thing, my feet seem to be several steps ahead of me. Calm down.  
— Here, — the thing sits comfortably in my palm, safe and secure in its paperbox. — Wait. No. Let me do it for you.

He follows me with his eyes. I run — well, I do — into the kitchen, I get a small plate, a fork and a knife, then I put the thing on the table, I turn my back to Mycroft, blocking the view, I open the box and take the thing out. Why am I so nervous? I take a step to the left.

His face… I wouldn't be able to describe it even if my life depended on it. It changes and then it changes again and again.  
— You bought me a cake.  
— Yes. Go on then, eat it.  
He doesn't move, still trying to find the right expression.  
— Mycroft. Will you eat it? I…  
— Yes. Of course. Just… let me put the kettle on.

 

It must be awkward for him. 

Mycroft makes tea for both of us, but I don't touch, don't even notice mine. Instead of that I just stare at him. It almost hurts to wait, I honestly feel like causing some death and destruction.  
He does eat it after a few minutes, when the tea is the right temperature. The woman didn't lie, the cake is very tender. But Mycroft doesn't ruin it, he eats it so delicatly it is actually fascinating. Forget about cocaine, this he definitely has done before. 

When all the strawberries and fluffy cream and white crispy parts are gone, he puts down his fork, finishes the tea and looks at me.  
— Thank you.  
— Any good?  
— I… Yes. Don't you want to say something? — his expression changes again, now it is… wrong.  
— Like what? — I ask him, feeling confused.  
— Something about my diet?

Oh. He thinks… Can't be. Does he really think?..  
— Just so that we're clear. But seriously, Mycroft, you pull one more stunt like this and I'll really start to suspect that you've got yourself a brain tumor. It wasn't an attempt to mock you or get back at you. Don't even know what for. I wanted to give you something, I saw the cake, I knew you'd like it, so I bought it. I… Well, alright, I _did_ tease you about the diet. This isn't that. I don't actually mind all of the… — I make a vague gesture. Pathetic. — I don't mind the way you are. I am not at odds with your stomach. It doesn't offend my sight. I like it.

He raises a brow. Is he just playing me? He can't possibly think that.  
— You've been harassing me about my weight for more than a decade. I sincerely doubt you'd just stop. It's inconsistent.

Or can he? I am too anxious for this game.  
— I… Yes, yes, it is all true. Am I not allowed to change my mind?  
— Why would you?

He's definitely playing me.  
— Because… Because I've learned better?  
Mycroft smiles, his expression finally sets. Who is keeping the score now?  
— You should try harder, — I tell him. — Come on, let's go, I am not finished with you yet.  
— You've got something else for me? — he asks, standing up and tidying his suit.  
— It is a two part gift. Bedroom.

 

— Do you have any… particular wishes?

I've undressed him, stealing the monstrous cufflinks in the process, and now we're on the bed together, he is lying on his back, looking up at me, I am sitting next to him, not knowing what to do.  
It is interesting to actually see him. All this white and ginger, the skin is thin and soft, covered in freckles and surprisingly sensitive. 

It also poses a problem. I am not irritated, so no brilliant ideas, no well-planned assualts in the dark corridor, nothing like that. I am not fuzzy. Well, maybe to a degree, but everything is clear and demanding, I have to see it as it is, I have to deduce, to figure it out. And it's not really my area.  
Well, we'll just do this the good old-fashioned way. Talking was invented for a reason, after all.

Mycroft doesn't answer, just vaguely shakes his head. So much for asking.  
I run my hand down his body, over the chest, avoiding the stomach — I am not yet over falling for his plot — and to the hips. Of course, he notices. Of course, this he just needs to comment on:  
— I thought you liked it.

I look at him, feeling all my face muscles tense up. I hope he burns. I hope he turns to stone.  
— Not… specifically. I mean, I like it as much as the next thing. I don't mind it, — I babble, I can tell by his smile. — I… I like your brain. Specifically. And your hands. Do you seriously need me to say all this?  
He shakes his head again. Alright. I run my hand back up, over the thigh, not avoiding the stomach — eat this, brother — all the way to his throat. He arches. Full access to our darkest political secrets, sir. Don't drift.

— So what… What should I do?  
— What do you want to do?  
— Mycroft. You're just enjoying this, aren't you?  
— Wasn't that the goal?  
— You…  
His hand flies up and stops me in the middle of the insult. He takes my hand, my wrong hand into his own, drags it to his face and puts two of my fingers into his mouth.  
— Enough of a clue? — he asks in a few seconds, releasing me.  
— Let me think. Maybe I've missed something. You want me to put my fingers up your ass and fuck you with them, correct?  
— More or less, — he says, his face flushed. It is good to have a storage of harsh things to say always full and ready to be opened.  
— Then it is sufficient, yes.

I cannot quite believe it works on him. So… basic.  
The other thing I am, on the contrary, very sure about. Mycroft isn't tense at all, so it takes nothing, just one breath in, one breath out — and the fingers are in. After that our movements come in familiar succession. I push the fingers in and out, he breathes, hisses and moans, I caress him with my right hand, up and down, and he shivers and trembles, and looks at me. Easy.

I just shouldn't get fuzzy and it all is going to be just fine.

Or maybe my conclusion was too rash. Because Mycroft shivers and trembles under my touch, arches his back, and his fingers twitch like they did before, feeble and weak. To hell with it, I think. I bend further and lower my head to take him into my mouth.  
He stops me. His hand is hovering near my face, not quite touching.  
— Why? — I ask. It's a strange thing to refuse.  
— Could you do it with your hand?  
— Why?  
— You do know how to play, — he answers with a sly smile. — Let me look at you.

I am not blushing. I take him into my hand, I grip and stroke, my fingers go in and out, Mycroft's shivering and hissing softly, his hands slack.  
I am not blushing, but he knows anyway.

 

— Should I do something for you? — he asks, putting the glass down.  
— No, it's fine. Not important. Just come here. Your back to me.  
Mycroft complies.

We lie peacefully for some time. The hair on the back of his neck is wet. I shuffle them, I draw spirals down his spine.  
— It's done, isn't it? — he asks.  
— Yes. Well, one or two loose ties and then it's over.  
— You won't come home.  
— I… No. I am not ready yet.  
— I thought you were in denial about that.  
— I am, so don't tell anybody. Especially my brother, he only _tries_ not to keep the score.  
He attemts to turn around.  
— Lie still.  
— So what will you do?  
— Don't know. Go east. Find that Indian family. Can I do that?  
— You can do whatever you want.  
— Apart from drugs.  
— Yes, please. Don't do drugs.

I shuffle his hair again and smell the sweat on my fingers.  
— I won't. Not without you, anyway.  
— I am not participating in that again.  
— Of course.  
— I'll miss you.  
— You're tired. I will come back eventually. I think.  
Mycroft moves closer, I put an arm around him.  
— Let's sleep, — I say.

And sleep we do.


End file.
